


Hope These Days

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Crowley Interacting With Children, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Mesopotamia, Noah's Ark, Pre-Relationship, The Fall (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: He misses creating, he admits. The closest a demon can get to creating these days is watching the humans make things—tools and languages and emotions—but a demon itself cannot create. Of course, he was not always a demon. He shakes off that thought, though; it doesn’t do to dwell on the past, on things irretrievably lost.Crowley watching the construction of the ark, trying to remember how to hope.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Hope These Days

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Those Nights" by Bastille.
> 
> Thanks to elizabethelizabeth for giving feedback and invaluable encouragement!

The hot sands sting his bare feet. Ahead of him, he sees figures gathered. Beyond, some large structure rises against the skyline. He doesn’t know what it is, has never seen the like before. It’s a creation of some kind, obviously, and curiosity spurs him onward.

Must be some kind of construction project. The humans are clever like that, always innovative and creative and fascinating.

He misses creating, he admits. The closest a demon can get to creating these days is watching the humans make things—tools and languages and emotions—but a demon itself cannot create.

Of course, he was not always a demon.

He shakes off that thought, though; it doesn’t do to dwell on the past, on things irretrievably lost. He reaches the edge of the crowd and sits on a rock, gazing out across the sands toward the object being built. From here, he can hear the sounds of hammering and voices calling out orders. The wind catches his hair, and he brushes it back out of his eyes. As he does, his hand touches skin—not his own—and he twists around.

A human. One of the little ones.

“Pretty,” the child says, beaming and patting his hair a second time. When her gaze meets his, however, her eyes widen in shock.

“Hello there,” he says quickly before she can back away. “You like my hair?”

She nods, brightening at his voice, and the fear of his demonic eyes recedes from her countenance.

“Go on, then,” he coaxes, tilting his head obligingly.

She giggles and starts playing with his hair once more. He smiles when he realizes she has started to braid a lock with her small fingers.

All is going well until a sharp tug at his hair jolts him. “Ow!”

“No,” the girl says to someone, and he notices another has joined them—a male, even younger than the girl. They resemble each other, he notices, and is proud of doing so. During the first few centuries, all the Humans looked the same to him. But in the thousand years since he laid eyes on Eve, he has learned better. Humans are as varied in shape and size as angels and demons; they are far less predictable, yet much more interesting most of the time.

“Careful,” the girl continues. She guides the other’s hands away, but he immediately reaches out again.

“Pretty,” he insists.

He catches the older child’s eye and smiles. “It’s all right,” he says. She nods, solemn, and shows her sibling how to copy her motions. Soon enough, a pair of braids has twisted fully into being.

The children are still playing with his hair when another Human approaches. An older one, an adult, also female. The parent, he believes, from the way she regards the children. He lowers his gaze. The children regarded his eyes with curiosity more than anything, but he knows that grown Humans are more prone to judgment and revulsion.

“I hope they weren’t bothering you,” the woman says, guiding her younger child to her side.

He shakes his head and winks at the little girl, who grins while tying off the braid with a bit of thread from her own garments. “Not at all.”

But the woman’s breath stutters, and he flinches. He knows that sound; she has spotted his eyes. He ducks his head again, bracing himself for the cries and condemnation.

Her hand grasps his chin, a light touch, only two fingers. He flicks his gaze up, but her scrutiny is too much, and so he closes his eyes.

“Blessed,” she murmurs in wonder.

His eyes fly open, and he gapes. She only smiles, drops her hand, and guides her children away. The boy waves shyly over his shoulder.

He waves back, still stunned, still rejecting what the woman has said. She is wrong. He has proof. He remembers…

— — —

His eyes open unto darkness.

Every inch of his celestial body aches, which he is fairly sure should not be possible. Nonetheless, he forces himself to a sitting position and glances down at himself.

He has landed spread-eagled on hard ground. No outward injuries present themselves, though he hardly expected them to. Angels are of hardy stock. Still, it seems that the landing was impactful enough to knock him out, so he lifts his hands to his head to check for wounds. Everything seems normal. If he could only see, find a reflection of himself, he would feel assured.

He stands and holds out his hand. “Let there be Light,” he murmurs, and snaps his fingers.

Nothing happens.

One second of confusion passes, and then it all comes flooding back. The fight, the screams, the fury. Everything happening too fast for him to stop, to explain, to beg. The shove that sent him over the edge, too sudden to catch himself and fly to safety. The fall that seemed never to end until, without warning, it did, with a shattering crash.

“No,” he breathes. He snaps again. “Let there be Light. Come _on_.”

Still nothing. Panic seizes him and forces him to his feet. He tries again, and again, and again, but the Light refuses to comply.

“Damn it,” he says in a choked whisper, trying to swallow the pain back.

“Indeed,” a rough voice says, making him whirl. “We _are_ damned.”

“L-Ligur?” he asks in a trembling voice. It isn’t the name he intended to say, but somehow, in the space between his lips and the air, the original name is snatched away, this new moniker left in its place.

“Yes, so it seems.”

A flame blooms to life in the other figure’s hand, illuminating them both. Hellfire. He cringes at the sight, but tries not to show his fear.

His fellow looks as beaten as he feels, but he smiles with terrible irony. “You look like Hell,” Ligur says with a laugh twisting his words. “Course, that’s appropriate.”

His heart clenches in his chest. He turns, taking in his surroundings. Dark walls, bone-deep chill, and the cloying smells of sulphur and rot. Nothing of the familiar light of Heaven exists here. None of the softness. Only steel. Only shadows.

“Come on,” Ligur says, claps him on the shoulder with his unlit hand, and moves off.

But he cannot move, startled by his acquaintance’s eyes. Until that moment, he’d thought the hellfire was playing tricks—but no. Ligur’s eyes have been transformed, from the soft brown of tree bark and animal fur to the frightening and unnatural colors of flames. Demonic, without question.

Ligur walks away, and his wings come into view. They are black and growing blacker, as black as the shadows enveloping their surroundings.

Dread cuts off his gasp. He straightens, and his own wings curl forward into his line of sight.

His wings are darkening.

Sooty streaks run down the lengths of each feather, starting at his shoulders. His hands move of their own accord to clutch at the wingtips, as if he can protect the gentle, familiar ivory that lingers there. But beneath his touch, in spite of his grasping hands, the change takes over, leaving his wings the shade of spent coal, a deep, smoky gray. A devastating shadow of their former selves.

“No,” he mouths, voice lost in shock. The grief will come later, he is sure, but now there is only numbness.

“Oi,” Ligur barks, far enough away now to have let the shadows creep in again. “Keep up!”

He looks up, wondering distantly when he fell to his knees. His gaze drops to his hands, which still cradle the tips of his wings like they are a piece of the aurora—ephemeral and precious.

Something visible in between the tips of his wings, however, catches his attention. He scrambles to all fours and peers down, realizing he is looking into a puddle. It is tepid and filthy, but has a clear enough film over its surface to reflect things.

To reflect himself.

His wings are not the only part of him irrevocably changed. Gazing back at him from the pool is a demon. Yellow, slit-pupiled eyes stare in horror, in fear, in disgust.

He shakes, but even as he wants to reject the sight before him, to flee and never look back, a voice in his mind sounds.

“ _This is what happens to angels who ask too many questions. This is what you deserve._ ”

He hates the words, hates the voice, hates that the voice is, without question, his own.

He rocks forward, knees landing in the puddle. The ache that permeated his body from the fall intensifies as he tilts his head backwards, toward Heaven.

He hears Ligur still calling for him, but he doesn’t reply. His prayer, too, is silent.

_Please._

— — —

He blinks, pulling himself out of the memory. The sounds of activity continue as the woman and her children disappear into the still-growing crowd. He stands, increasingly curious about why they are all here, to watch the construction of what he realizes now to be a boat. Yes, it’s big, but… what of it?

What can it be for? Why would they need it, in this sandy desert?

He wanders in among the people, glancing from face to face, seeking a clue in one of their expressions. And there, standing with them, is someone he knows. His breath catches, because he remembers.

He remembers dark soil and verdant leaves. He remembers bright fruits and white wings. He remembers feeling intrigued, feeling happy, feeling seen.

He remembers the angel of the east gate.

A thousand years have elapsed since they have gotten to properly interact—certainly, they’ve seen each other in passing, but never had a chance for a substantial conversation. Sometimes, he wonders if the angel even remembers him. If the angel replays their discussion in his mind the way he does.

He is jostled slightly by a cluster of people, and shuffles to the side, out of the way. It is only then he realizes he has been frozen on the spot, captivated by memory and transfixed by this unexpected familiar figure who stands at the edge of the crush of people.

This figure, this angel, wears cream clothing as he had in Eden—it’s the precise shade his own wings had been before the Fall. This angel has the light of God in his eyes, but is also illuminated with Love for this messy world he’s been dropped into. This angel has been the only one to give his own demonic life any interest or warmth.

For the first time since he woke with pewter wings and burning eyes, he feels a twinge of Hope, something he hasn’t felt since before he fell, and his feet move him forward.

He chases the Hope, and he smiles.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope everyone is staying safe. During these uncertain, strange times, please remember that no one is alone, so reach for your loved ones who give you hope.


End file.
